


Help

by Alex51324



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen, themes of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured on a mission, Illya is exposed to a drug causing intense sexual arousal.  Napoleon helps.  </p>
<p>(Note: I selected the rape/non-con warning because this trope is inherently dub-conny, and because there is discussion of rape and questionable consent in the story.  The sex that occurs in the story is agreed-to by both parties.  More details in notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was originally going to be a story about Illya's fucked-up beliefs about sexuality--the working title was "unsexy sex pollen story." Then it turned into porn. Not what I was planning, but the heart wants what it wants, and so do body parts a little further south. So now it's basically your standard sex-pollen story with some internalized homophobia and a thematic emphasis on consent. Full, spoilery details are in the end notes, for both triggers.

As Napoleon got to work picking the lock of the cell door, Gaby called, “Illya? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

Napoleon was pretty sure he was in there—it was the only one that was locked—but given that Illya had been captured yesterday, “okay” was an open question. He might not even be _alive_. 

So he was relieved to hear the answer, “Gaby?” His voice sounded…strained. Not weak, exactly. More like he was in pain, but not seriously harmed.

“Yes, Illya, it’s me.”

“No,” Illya said. “Don’t—Gaby. Don’t come in.”

Glancing over at Napoleon worriedly, she called, “It’s all right. We’re here to rescue you.”

“Solo’s…there?”

“We both are,” Napoleon answered, finally getting the lock open. 

As he started to open the door, Illya said, “You can come in. Not Gaby.”

Now it was Napoleon’s turn to give her a look of worry. Gaby was tough, and Illya knew it; what could have happened to him that he thought was too awful for her to see? “Okay, Peril,” he said, and opened the door just enough to slip inside.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the dim of the cell, he realized why Illya had insisted that Gaby stay outside. Illya was chained spread-eagled to the wall, stark naked, and sporting an erection the approximate size of the Empire State building. Napoleon laughed a little, purely out of relief that the situation was not as dire as he imagined. “This tells me something about you that I’d rather not know.”

“Is not funny,” Illya said, between clenched teeth. “That…woman…injected me with something. I am not enjoying this.”

“Okay,” Napoleon said. Raising his voice, he called, “Gaby, he’s okay. Can you look around for some pants…or a sheet…towel…anything?”

The door started to open. “Honestly, Illya! I was worried. It isn’t like I haven’t seen—oh.”

“Please go away.”

Gaby seemed frozen in shock. Or something. Napoleon turned her around, advising, “Avert your maiden eyes.”

She nodded. “I’ll just….” 

After she had gone, Napoleon got to work on picking the locks on the manacles. He decided to start with the wrists, in the hopes that the…situation…might have subsided somewhat by the time he got to the ankles. 

It hadn’t, but when Gaby returned with some trousers—probably liberated from the largest of the downed guards—Illya was at least able to shield his modesty with his hands. 

When they returned to the hotel, Napoleon headed straight for the bar. He and Illya were sharing a room this time, and he suspected that Illya was even more eager to have some privacy there than Napoleon was to give it to him. 

“He’ll be all right, won’t he?” Gaby asked, looking over her shoulder at the direction Illya had gone.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. Nobody actually dies of blue balls; that’s just something men say to get girls into bed.”

“I know,” she said. “But whatever she gave him might have some other effects.”

She had a point. “We definitely have time for a drink first. I do _not_ want to interrupt him.”

Gaby agreed to the logic of that, and they shared a leisurely drink before she went off her own room, announcing her intention of checking in with Mr. Waverly. Napoleon figured Illya had probably had enough “alone time”—but decided to have another drink, just to be safe. 

When he did finally go up to the room, he tapped at the door before opening it. Even under normal circumstances, it wasn’t the best idea to startle the Peril. 

“What?” 

“Me,” Napoleon said. “Are you decent?”

There was a sound like a growl from inside the room, and a click of the door unlocking. 

Cautiously, Napoleon went inside. Illya had changed from the stolen trousers into his pyjama bottoms, and the attire made it very clear that the problem had not subsided. Noticing that Napoleon had noticed—it was impossible _not_ to notice—Illya growled again. 

“Didn’t you, uh….” Napoleon made a lewd gesture. “I mean, maybe it’s bourgeois decadence, but in the circumstances….”

“Of course I tried that. Did not work.”

“Oh,” Napoleon said. Turning away, he suggested, “Uh, sometimes it takes twice to, uh, go the whole way down.”

“No,” Illya said. “I was not…able to…achieve climax.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Uh…and that’s…not a problem you normally have?”

“No.”

“Er…cold shower?” he offered, still not looking at Illya.

“Tried.”

“Thinking about the suffering of Christ on the Cross?”

“What?”

“It’s what the priest said to do for impure thoughts,” Napoleon explained. “Never actually worked for me, but….”

“I am atheist.”

“Right, so…er, did Lenin suffer anywhere?”

“I could kill you with one hand.”

“Okay,” Napoleon said. “I think we need a little time apart, but before I go, I need to ask if you’re experiencing any other symptoms.”

Growl.

“This is just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you--”

“No,” Illya said, “is not.”

“Mentally, I mean. But there might be some other effects. I can’t think of a reason why Dominque would inject you with something just to cause—that, so—” 

“She had reason.”

“Okay.” Napoleon waited. “Do you want to tell me what it was?”

“No.” From the direction Napoleon still wasn’t looking, he heard Illya moving around. “She wanted…seed.”

“Seed?” For a moment, Napoleon’s thoughts turned to agriculture.

“To make baby.”

Oh. That kind of seed. “And she, uh, just had to have you, huh?”

“Apparently, she hopes to create Amazon race. How she intended to make sure child would be girl was not explained.”

Napoleon thought about that for a moment. Then he resolved never, ever to think about it again. Illya was right; it really wasn’t funny at all. Focusing on the problem at hand, he said, “Okay, so this means you can…achieve climax.” It took everything he had not to imitate Peril’s accent when he said those two words. “You just need a woman. I’ll go find a prostitute.”

“No,” Illya said. 

“My treat.” Probably have to pay her double, given the size of the problem, but it would be worth it to put a close to this horrifying chapter of Napoleon’s life. 

“No.”

“If you’re worried about catching something, we have these things called ‘condoms.’”

“I know.” When Napoleon stole a glance over at Illya, his fingers were twitching, which was never a good sign. “I am ‘worried’ about exploitation of women.”

Oh. Even though he knew now that Illya wasn’t quite the dumb bruiser he appeared to be, that was still a bit of a surprise. “One who isn’t being exploited, then. If I look for one who doesn’t have a pimp—”

“Woman who has sex for money is being exploited, whether she has pimp or not.”

The twitching was worse, and Napoleon abruptly remembered Illya’s “popular” mother. “Right, bad idea,” he said quickly, taking an unobtrusive backward step toward the door. “I’ll just go, and if I think of anything else—”

“Yes. Go.”

Napoleon went. After grabbing a bite to eat, he returned to the hotel bar, which was starting to fill up for the evening. He eyed the local talent, thinking that if Illya didn’t want a professional, perhaps an enthusiastic amateur would work. 

Chatting with a few likely prospects demonstrated that, if Napoleon had been the one with an urgent need to get laid, he wouldn’t have had any trouble finding a taker. But he couldn’t quite find a way to bring up the fact that he had a very large and very horny friend upstairs; the one time he tried, the woman thought he was suggesting a threesome. 

Giving up, he went back to the room, hoping to find that Illya had solved the problem on his own. He hadn’t, and it looked to Napoleon like matters had gotten worse. He still tried to keep his eyes averted from the locus of the difficulty, but it was obvious just from Illya’s clenched jaw and labored breathing that he was in pain. 

“You, uh, change your mind about that prostitute?”

“No.”

Napoleon scrubbed his hand over his face. _Something_ needed to be done—not only was the guy suffering, but they were going to need him functional tomorrow. 

Maybe he’d been too hasty in rejecting the threesome. It wasn’t something he was exactly keen to do—and he didn’t have a full read on whether the woman was actually up for it or just toying with him—but they were running out of options. “Wait here,” he said.

“If you are about to suggest Gaby—”

“No,” Napoleon said, even though he had been thinking of that as Plan B. Not pressuring her into it, or anything, just…laying out the facts and seeing if she wanted to offer. 

“I will kill you.”

“Right, no Gaby, I understand.”

He slipped out of the room and closed the door firmly. 

But when he got back downstairs, the woman was nowhere to be seen. Propping his elbows on the bar, Napoleon put his head in his hands and groaned. 

“Something I can help you with, mate?” the barman said.

“Yeah,” Napoleon said, sighing heavily. Plan C it was. Probably the most practical of the plans, if Illya didn’t kill him for suggesting it. “I’m going to need a double scotch and the biggest bottle of vodka that you’re legally allowed to sell me.”

Returning to the room with these items, Napoleon paused in the hallway to steel himself. And to make his peace with the very real possibility of impending death. “Okay,” he said to himself. “Okay.”

He went in. Carefully not looking at Illya—who had moved to the bed in a vain effort to get comfortable—he got one of the water glasses from the bathroom and filled it from the vodka bottle. “Drink that,” he said as he handed it to Illya.

“It’s warm,” Illya complained.

“It’s medicinal. Drink it.”

“Is not going to help,” Illya said. “I thought of this.”

“That’s only step one of the plan,” Napoleon told him. “Drink it.” When Illya seemed about to obey, a horrible thought occurred to him. “Wait.”

Illya lowered the glass. “What?”

“Does drinking make you more likely to fly into a violent rage? I was betting on less. If it’s more, maybe we’d better skip that step.”

Glaring at him, Illya drained the glass. 

Napoleon took a long pull from his own glass. “Do you want another one?”

Illya extended his glass, but said, “There is not enough vodka in this hotel to make me pass out.”

“That wasn’t the plan,” Napoleon said, filling the glass.

Illya drank. “Then what is the plan?”

Napoleon opened his mouth, then shook his head and drank again. “All right, look.”

Illya looked at him.

Oh, God, that was worse. “I don’t mean actually _look_. Stop looking at me.”

Illya looked away.

“Okay.” Napoleon took a deep breath. “We’re friends, right?”

“If you say so.”

That…could have been more encouraging. “Right. So you understand that I’m only trying to help.”

“If you say so,” Illya repeated.

“So you’re not going to murder me, right?”

“That depends on what your plan is.”

“Just out of curiosity, what do you think the plan might be, that would cause you to murder me?”

“If you have asked Gaby—”

“Nope. Totally different plan. “ He took another deep breath. “I think we can agree that something needs to be done here. Before you have a stroke.” He had told Gaby that no one ever died of blue balls, but it had been hours now without the thing dying down; that wasn’t natural, so who knew what might happen? 

“It’s getting worse,” Illya admitted. 

“So unless you’ve changed your mind about the prostitute—”

“I have not.”

“Then the only other option I can think of is for me to…help you out.”

Illya stared at him. Napoleon was all right with that; he figured each second’s delay reduced the chance of murder by at least a few percentage points. “You.”

Napoleon nodded. 

“My hand didn’t work; I don’t think yours would either.”

“Right. I was thinking, ah, mouth.”

More staring, which Napoleon reminded himself he had decided to take as a good sign. “You are willing to do this.”

“It’s not exactly my favorite thing,” Napoleon hurried to say, “but I’ve done it before, and…yeah. I guess. Unless the prostitute idea is sounding better,” he added hopefully. Even now that it was looking like Illya wasn’t going to murder him, he had some reservations about size. 

Illya’s brow furrowed as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. No hand-twitching, but Napoleon took a step backward, just in case. “Is okay,” he said gently, holding up one hand. “What, you were goat in prison, then?”

“Goat?” Napoleon asked, even though he had a pretty good guess what it meant.

“Man who other prisoners use for—”

“I get it,” Napoleon said quickly. “No. No. The American term for that is ‘bitch,’ in case you wondered—”

‘I didn’t.”

“—but no, I wasn’t one. This was…voluntary.”

Illya was still looking at him with what Napoleon belatedly realized was _concern_. “Was it?” He shook his head. “No, Napoleon. Thank you, but this is not necessary.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Napoleon said. He’d been trying to make clear that he wasn’t a real homosexual, not to suggest that he’d been _raped_ , for God’s sake. “I mean, actually voluntary. Not when I was in _pre-trial detention_ , by the way—I was never in prison. Just, you know. There are times when there aren’t any girls available, and you get tired enough of your own hand that trading favors with another guy seems like a good idea.”

“If you say so. I have never encountered such times.”

Maybe he hadn’t; as far as Napoleon knew, Illya hadn’t gotten laid once in the going-on-four-months they’d been working together. Himself, he found four _days_ to be pushing it. “Okay. I just, I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m _like that_ —this isn’t a dream come true for me or anything. But I’m not throwing myself on a grenade, here, either. It’s something that needs done, and I know I can do it, so--” He shrugged.

“You wish me to understand that you are not homosexual, but you have no particular objection to sucking my dick,” Illya said.

Only it sounded more like _sooking my deek_ , and somehow, that pushed a button Napoleon hadn’t realized he had. He found himself facing the situation with a little more enthusiasm than he had anticipated. “Exactly.”

Illya watched him for a while. “Okay.”

“Okay, as in you understand, or okay as in….”

“Okay, as in, if you are sure you do not mind.”

“Okay.” Napoleon took a sip of his drink, suddenly feeling very unsure about what to do with his hands. “You, uh, want a little bit of a warm-up, or straight to business?”

Illya shifted slightly on the bed. “Whatever you think is best.”

“Words I never thought I’d hear you say,” Napoleon quipped.

“You are the one doing me favor. And it is your area of expertise.”

“One of my many areas of expertise,” Napoleon corrected. He eyed Illya up and down. Warm-up, he thought. Illya might not need it, but he did. 

Putting his drink down, Napoleon kicked off his shoes and started untying his tie. “I’m not going to…I just think doing this completely, fully dressed feels weird,” he explained. He took off his jacket, vest, and tie, carefully hanging them on the back of a chair, and undid the top button of his shirt. Okay. 

After one last sip of Dutch courage, he went over to Illya, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed. “Move your feet apart, Peril.”

Illya did.

Napoleon knelt. Now, apparently, it was Illya’s turn not to know what to do with his hands; he tried several options—the most hilariously counterproductive of which was folding them in his lap—before finally leaning back on them. 

Taking a deep breath, Napoleon ran his hands up Illya’s thighs. Most of the times he’d done this, he’d been a skinny kid, doing it with other skinny kids. Illya’s thighs were like tree trunks. And his cock—visible through the gaping fly of his pyjama bottoms—didn’t seem much smaller. It was flushed a dark, angry purple, and leaking slightly at the tip. It looked painful as hell; he didn’t know how Illya could stand it. 

Continuing to rub up and down his thighs, Napoleon thought about strategy. Deep-throating the whole thing was out of the question; there was just too much of it, and he was out of practice. He’d have to get his hand around the base—it might take both hands—and then suck what was left.

Strategy decided, he thought about Illya. Someone had asked Napoleon, once, if he didn’t get tired of having sex with people he didn’t love. His secret was that he could find something to love about just about anyone. Or make something up, if it was a short acquaintance. 

He thought about how glad he had been to see Illya when he was in “Uncle Rudi’s” electric chair—and a dozen or so times since that he’d pulled Napoleon’s fat out of the fire. He thought about how gentle Illya was with Gaby, those enormous bear-paws of his touching her like he was afraid she’d break. He thought of how surprised Illya had been when, catching him squinting at a book, Gaby had taken him out to shop for reading glasses. And how now that he had them, Illya ducked furtively into any bookshop he had a chance to, coming out with a purchase hidden inside his coat. And the joke Illya had told them, about why KGB agents operate in groups of three: “One to write, one to read, and one to keep eye on the two intellectuals. I was third one, of course.”

And that was probably enough—Napoleon only had to love him for the next twenty minutes or so; he didn’t want to overdo it. Reaching inside the pyjamas, he took out Illya’s cock. It was heavy in his hand, the skin soft, but hard as concrete underneath. _The iron hand in the velvet glove_ , Napoleon thought. _Or something_. Leaning forward, he licked experimentally around the tip.

Illya gasped and bucked. 

“You okay there, Peril?”

After panting for a moment, Illya said, “Yes. I will keep still.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Lowering his head again, he licked down the length of it, then circled around the base. True to his word, Illya kept still, but out of the corner of his eye Napoleon could see that he was clutching hard at his own thigh. 

Better make this quick. Getting his hand into position, Napoleon sucked the rest of him down, hard and fast. He bobbed up and down on it, in quick, short movements. Little bit of tongue, little bit of teeth. Illya groaned out something that a native speaker of Russian might have been able to make out as a word. Or might not. Word or not, Napoleon was pretty sure it meant _I’m coming_. With his free hand, Napoleon patted Illya’s hand where it gripped his thigh. 

Illya’s seed spilled down his throat, thick and bitter. There seemed to be gallons of it. After the last spurt, Napoleon pulled off, disengaged his hand, sat back on his heels and breathed heavily. “Feel better?” he asked, between breaths.

Illya was doing some heavy breathing of his own; it took a moment or two before he was able to say, “Yes.”

Napoleon took a look. His cock looked a hell of a lot less painful, but it was still about half hard. “Uh-huh. I don’t think we’re finished.”

“You’ve done enough,” Illya said, pulling away and stuffing himself back into his pants. 

Getting to his feet, Napoleon shook his head. “No, seriously, sometimes it takes twice. Just let me catch my breath and we’ll go again.” 

“Cowboy….” Illya said.

“You ever get antibiotics from a doctor?” Napoleon downed the last of his Scotch.

“Yes,” Illya said, sounding puzzled.

“You know how they say, take them all even if you’re feeling better?” He sloshed some of the vodka into his glass. “If you don’t, whatever you had will just come back worse?”

“I’m not sure it’s the same.”

“You wanna risk it, be my guest.” He sipped at the vodka. “Ugh, this shit’s warm.”

“It’s medicinal,” Illya told him. 

“It tastes like it.”

“It’s also Polish. Terrible.” But he held out his glass for another helping, which Napoleon poured for him. 

#

Illya settled back against the headboard and sipped at his drink. Between the alcohol and finally getting some relief, he felt more relaxed than he could remember feeling in a long time. He knew he should stop drinking—in his profession, in his life, being too much at ease was likely to get him killed. One way or another. But now that he’d started, he didn’t _want_ to stop. 

Tipping his head back against the wall, he eyed Solo. Napoleon. His cock had been in the man’s mouth; he should probably think of him by his first name. Whatever Illya called him, he was perched against the dresser, looking unruffled. 

The only thing Illya had managed to cling to, when he’d been out of his mind with lust, was his determination not to make use of anyone. It was bad enough that he was degraded in this way, without forcing anyone else into it with him. He hadn’t been entirely sure, until now, that he’d managed to keep to that resolution—for all that he insisted he was willing, Solo— _Napoleon_ —had certainly seemed nervous. Too, Illya had never heard of a normal man doing such a thing unless he was forced. Knowing Napoleon’s precarious situation with the authorities in his own country, he’d even wondered if someone—Mr. Waverly was the only candidate, really—had told him he had to do this. 

Gaby had assured him, in another context, that Waverly wasn’t like that. That he expected their best, but would not hurt them if there were lines they refused to cross. He had believed her enough to tell Napoleon yes. 

But he hadn’t been sure until now. Napoleon wouldn’t be able to stand there and joke with him like nothing terrible had happened, unless nothing terrible had. 

Unfortunately, he was still hard. It wasn’t the torment that it had been. He could stand it—might even be able to sleep, a little. He didn’t feel like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. 

But he was hard, and he was having a very difficult time tearing his eyes away from Napoleon’s mouth. 

Napoleon put his glass down. “You look like you’re ready for round two.”

Illya looked away. “I am very grateful,” he began, because he _was_. Napoleon didn’t have to do this for him, and it was so, so unexpectedly kind of him not to even make him _ask_. To talk him into it, as if it were at all fair or reasonable for Illya to be the one who needed convincing. But the words were bitter in his mouth; it was far from the first time he’d had to be grateful to be given something that he only needed because someone else had forced him to. 

Napoleon brushed his hand through the air, as if waving away a gnat. “Don’t—I don’t like that word. If you want to say something, just say it was good.”

“It was good,” Illya said. 

Napoleon spread his arms and bowed, like he was on a stage. 

“And I am ready for encore if you are.”

Napoleon grinned and slunk over, like a big cat. Illya sat up, like he had the first time, and Napoleon knelt between his legs. He started to lean toward Illya’s groin, but then sat back on his heels and rolled up his sleeves. “ _Now_ , I’m ready,” he said. 

Illya suspected he might be a little bit drunk. 

He started off like he had before, licking around a little bit and then gripping the base with his hand. But he went slower this time, spending more time licking around the head, teasing Illya with his tongue. He pulled off for a moment to ask, “This okay, Peril?”

“Yes,” Illya said, because it was. 

Napoleon got back to work. He started sucking now, but he was still teasing, sucking only the tip, going a little lower each time he bobbed his head. If he had done it that way the first time, Illya wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from shoving himself down his throat. 

Probably, that was why he hadn’t done it that way last time. Illya clenched his hands, and kept his hips still. 

When Napoleon finally took him the whole way—or as far as his hand, at least—Illya found one of his own hands, entirely of its own accord, coming up to cup the back of Napoleon’s head. 

Napoleon froze, looking up at Illya with his mouth still full. 

Illya was abruptly aware of the eggshell fragility of Napoleon’s skull, beneath his fingers, and felt oddly tender towards him. “This okay, Cowboy?”

Napoleon pulled his head back, taking Illya’s hand with it. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s…good, actually.”

He went back to what he was doing, and Illya kept his hand where it was. He was almost sorry when he felt himself building toward climax, and when Napoleon, seeming to sense it somehow, picked up his pace. When he came—less forcefully this time, less like the orgasm was being ripped out of him—he knew that this time would be enough to relieve him of the effect of the drug. And thus, that whatever strange thing had developed between him and Napoleon in the last little while would shortly be at an end. 

This time, Napoleon flopped forward instead of back to catch his breath, resting his head against Illya’s thigh. Illya was seized with a strong impulse to ruffle his hair, and gave in to it. 

“Holy hell, Peril,” Napoleon said. “You are so fucking _polite_ in bed. I love it.”

Unsure how to respond, Illya said, “Thank you.”

Napoleon laughed, not in an unfriendly way. “No, I mean it. You’re one in a million.” He stayed where he was for another moment or two, then got up and poured another round of drinks. 

“You’re drunk,” Illya observed, tucking his now-blessedly-limp penis back inside his pyjamas.

“I am a little drunk,” Napoleon agreed, handing Illya his drink. “But that thing with your hand. Some people just shove your face into their crotch, and you can’t breathe, and I guess some people must like it, but I don’t. That was nice. I liked that.”

“Okay,” Illya said, wondering why Napoleon was telling him. It wasn’t as though he could have any future use for this information. The circumstances were unlikely to repeat themselves. 

“What I’m trying to say is, if you want to forget this ever happened and never speak of it again….”

If Illya had been any less relaxed, and any less blissfully fucked out, he would have expected this statement to be followed by some kind of threat or ultimatum: what he had to do if he did not wish for this to be spoken of. 

He did not expect that now.

“…that’s one option,” Napoleon finished.

Illya blinked at him. “And other option?”

“Other option,” Napoleon said, in a mockery of his accent that Illya was surprisingly not irritated by, “is that we _don’t_ forget it ever happened and never speak of it again.” He gave Illya something that was halfway between a pat on the head and a clip ‘round the ear. “Sleep on it,” he suggested, shedding the rest of his clothes on the way to the bathroom.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Homophobia: Napoleon is a man who has sex with men, but does not identify as gay. He worries about the risk of homophobic violence from Illya when he suggests they have sex, but this does not occur. There is a lot of no-homo posturing before the sex begins. Illya, in internal monologue, refers to Napoleon as "normal," which here means something like "straight-acting."
> 
> Issues of Consent:  
> *Illya is given the sex pollen to facilitate his rape by a female captor for purposes of reproduction. He is rescued before this can occur.   
> *Napoleon initially takes the situation somewhat lightly, but switches gears when he realizes Illya doesn't find it funny at all.  
> * Napoleon suggests that Illya have sex with a prostitute; Illya refuses this option, citing a belief that sex work is inherently coercive. Napoleon accepts this refusal, but as the situation worsens, asks Illya several times if he has changed his mind.  
> * When Napoleon indicates that he has had sex with men before, Illya comes to the incorrect conclusion that these encounters were coercive or assaultative. He also wonders if someone has coerced Napoleon into offering sex at the present time, but concludes that they did not.  
> *They both drink alcohol before and during sex; they are affected but not severely impaired.  
> *During sex, both parties check in to confirm consent.  
> *They end up enjoying it.


End file.
